Murder by Numbers
by Rapunzel452
Summary: Jam Session 12, set between Jupiter Jazz Part 2 and Bohemian Rhapsody. A dark comedy about, well, murder and why you shouldn't screw it up.


****

Murder By Numbers

So dark... so very dark... it was like a weight pressing into him from all sides. He strained to see something, anything, his breathing labored, his heartbeat rapid and so loud he thought surely the others would hear it. There was no sound, no movement, and yet he knew something was there... he struggled to see it, desperate to know what phantom had awakened him and at the same time just as desperate to remain ignorant... he wanted to lie back down, to let sleep reclaim him, but he knew it was impossible. Though every physical sense told him there was nothing there, his mind, his being, his very soul insisted that he must be afraid. And afraid he was... so very afraid...

A thin beam of light found its way through the dark, a spider's thread of illumination, landing directly on his eye. He was frozen in bed, unable to turn away, unable to blink, scarcely able to breathe... how long would this torment continue? How much more would he have to bear? 

The thread of light plunged to the ground as the door to Jet's room was flung open. Before he could even cry out, his assailant dragged him to the floor and pulled the mattress over him... darkness everywhere, even inside him now... he couldn't move...he couldn't breathe... everything was blackness... his only awareness was the beating of his heart, faster and faster, racing onward even as it grew fainter... no! he could not let it fade! He struggled with all his might to hear it, to know it beat on... it was no use, it was fading out of existence...

The front bell tolled through the house, and then again, refusing to be ignored. "Shit! Not now!" Spike spat out, rising and fleeing the chamber. His weight thus lifted from the mattress, Jet was able to turn and draw a precious, rasping, deep breath...

...He coughed violently, the bells on his hat jingling eerily in the cavernous vault. Faye regarded him with interest; she flung the light of her torch on the walls, calling his attention to the crystalline threads traversing the rocks. "Niter... it is all through these tunnels... how long have you had that cough?" she asked amiably, her green eyes flashing in the firelight.

"It... it is nothing. The Amontillado--"

"--Is not as important as your health, my dear man. We will turn back." A curious, laugh-like tone hung in her voice... he figured it to be a trick conjured up by his ever-so-slightly inebriated state, and insisted they press onward. And so they did... the torch flickering through the darkness of the vault, the bells of his cap jingling awkwardly in the vast space, Faye's unusual laughing voice floating through the damp air...

...The niter growing ever thicker along the rock walls...

...His cough steadily worsening...

...The fog in his head thickening, chilling him throughout...

She led him to the end of the vault, guiding him into a small niche in the masonry, just big enough for a man... and chained him to the wall, taking advantage of his wine-addled state. He stared back at her, confused (though perhaps not as confused as he wanted to be)... "Faye..."

"Jet." Her voice lilted back.

"The Amontillado..."

"Yes. The Amontillado." And with that melodic phrase, she began to lay the bricks across the opening... steadily, rhythmically... no, the darkness... it was increasing... it couldn't be... he gasped for air and was rewarded with coughing fits... he rattled his chains and was answered only by the clink-clink-clink of the bricklaying... he yelled out and got in return her charming, eerie laughter... 

And then it was done. He was once again in the perilous darkness, surrounded on all sides by masonry, rock, the poisonous niter... and blackness.

"Hi!"

Jet nearly jumped out of his skin, for suddenly, there was a voice... there was light... there was...

"Ed???"

The girl rocked back and forth, back and forth, her Cheshire grin belying their imprisoned circumstances. "Spooooooky in here, huh?"

"How did you get in here?"

She merely grinned back, silent.

"Ed, what's going on?"

Once more, there was nothing from her.

"You have to tell me!" Frantically, he seized her: "What's going on? How do I get out of this?"  
A whispered reply... "Nevermore."

A sudden chill coursed down his spine, stunning him so that he dropped her. "Wha...what?"

"Nevermore." The word seemed to emanate from beyond his young companion--indeed, from somewhere beyond the very plane of existence. 

"Edward..."

"Nevermore!" she squealed gleefully, suddenly springing up and frolicking about the tiny enclosure. "Nevermore, nevermore! Forever and ever and neeeeeeeeevermooooooooore!" The childish singing echoed through the room, which was growing ever brighter, blurring before him. As Ed's voice faded away, others replaced it--a multitude of voices, pleasant, joyful... there was color now, lights, music... his prison was falling away...

...And was replaced by the rooms of a sumptuous palace, of which he was the master. A brilliantly gaudy masquerade was taking place, the current distraction for the idle rich who sought to ignore the world outside. Jet gazed around him, at the room hung only in blue, at the outlandish garb of his guests, trying to puzzle out what was happening to him.

"What's going on here... what _was_ that? Faye tried to kill me! But... where the hell _were_ we? And what was going before that? That was Spike that time!" He sought a place of meager solitude in a corner of the room, putting his hand to his brow. "I don't understand any of this... how did Ed get in there? And what the hell was that 'nevermore' stuff? It sounds like something out of... Poe..." A thought struck him, and instantly he was out in the thick of the crowd, weaving his way through the parlors that had been set aside for the revelry. He made his way through rooms of blue, purple, green, orange, white, and violet--and stopped dead in his tracks at the entrance to the seventh and final room.

Black.

"The Masque of the Red Death," he whispered. "But... how...?"

The imposing grandfather clock tolled the hour in its eerie, commanding tone, as silence fell in the parlors to hearken to it. Revelation struck at this very moment, as though borne by the very Hour...  
"I'm dreaming. This is all a dream!"

Once again the noise of the party rose, the ominous music of time having passed away. Jet's subconscious state of existence now understood, he began to search for a way out--for such macabre is only enjoyable when it is being _read_, rather than experienced. Waking one's self up from inside one's own head is not as easy as would be hoped, of course. "Ok... now, think! Is there a pattern here? Anything I can use? It's all been Poe so far, but... different somehow. Especially the first time... it doesn't happen that way. No one shows up at the door until the murder is over. I should have died... I should have... that's it! I was supposed to die both times, but it got screwed up instead... so all I have to do is die, and I'll wake up!"

Rarely is the prospect of one's own death a cause for celebration, but that is exactly how Jet received this solution. Fortunately, in this particular scenario, his death was assured--all there was to do was to await the grim personification of disease. And as the clock tolled midnight, the wait was complete: for there, suddenly present among the partiers, was a figure clad in black, with the appearance of a corpse. He was truly horrifying to behold, and the revelers shrank back from him in abject terror.

Jet grinned to himself as the figure made his way purposefully through the rooms. "Perfect." He gave chase, timing his pursuit so that he would catch the specter in the final room, and thus be the first to fall to its fatal malady. The blood-red light shining on the black tapestries was just before him... he was nearly to the demon that could end his nightmare... soon, this would all be but a faded memory like so many others... when without warning, he was shoved to the side by another figure. He stumbled to the side and watched helplessly as this new person burst into the black room ahead of him to confront the bringer of death.

"Hold it, pal!" She might have been any other guest, if not for her short raven hair, her all-too-familiar voice, and the Austrian Glock she had trained at the cloaked figure's head. Jet stared in disbelief.

"You've got to be kidding me..."

But it was too late. The Red Death had turned--and so it was Faye, not Jet, who became his first victim. Jet was in the middle of telling himself that it didn't matter, that all those in attendance would die nonetheless, himself included...

...When he found himself standing in an environment of gray, in the presence of a desolate mansion mirrored in the dismal gloom of its accompanying lake.

"Aww, dammit."

This epithet thus expelled, linearity and lucidity took their leave of him, and he was once again unaware of his surroundings as anything more than reality. In a seamless blur he spent a number of days in the company of an old friend, one now a victim of illness--much like his sister. Alas, the illness of the sister was nearly at its end: Jet saw her but once, a ghostly figure even prior to her passing, before Death took her home. He paid his respects privately, in the company only of his old friend--and, of course, the object of his ministrations. She was not an attractive figure in death... the illness had ravaged her totally. Her face, a white mask framed in raven hair, held the faint grimace familiar to those who have spent time around corpses; Jet, not being one of those people, found the look entirely unsettling, and turned his attention to the living expression (though not by much) of his friend. He was contemplating his sister's body with an enigmatic look; try as he might, Jet could not discern his emotions. There was grief, yes, but others as well: fear, perhaps? guilt? could it be... relief? He could not be sure. Glancing from his friend's face to that of the sister, he noticed something odd that had previously escaped his attention: there was an unmistakable similarity between them. Their features were quite different, but something in the character of their faces connected them instantly upon sight; he remarked on this to his friend.

"Yes... we are twins, her and I."

"Ah, I see... so that explains why you appear so deeply connected."

His friend was silent, and drew a short breath as though surprised.

"Are you all right?"

"...Forgive me. Yes, I am fine. I was merely thinking... we were deeply connected. We have shared... much."

"They say that is typical of twin siblings."

"Ours was not typical, I assure you," his friend replied with a savage smirk. 

"...I am sorry, old friend. I am causing you further pain."

"No, no, it is nothing." He waved a hand as sharply as his ailed state would allow. "Enough of this. Let us finish what must be done."

The final resting place of the sister's physical body was a vault in the cellar of the family manor, and it was into this chamber that Jet and his friend placed her. It was quite an undertaking, but at last the heavy door was sealed, effectively ending the story of his sister's life on this mortal plane.

It was unthinkable that anything could escape from such an entombment. Especially when one is dead. So Jet was at a loss to explain how, that night, during as frightful a storm as he had ever seen, he and his friend began to hear sounds, horrible sounds, emanating throughout the manor from the cellar. They both tried to ignore it, it could not be, it was impossible, but they both knew. The sister was not dead. And now, now as a loud crash and a sickening creak echoed through the air, she had freed herself. As her footsteps approached, as his friend laughed like a madman at his folly of thinking he could escape his sister prematurely, slowly a sense of place returned to Jet. He recognized his surroundings for what they were: a story. His mind raced, remembering his mission, trying to figure out how he could die when he had not been cast as the murder victim... of course! The brother and sister would die together as the house collapsed around them. He must simply stay inside, and his death--and thus his awakening--would be assured.

Logical planning was on his side--but luck was not. Moments before the sister burst into the chamber, his old friend approached him with an uncharacteristic physical strength, seized hold of his arm, and flung him from the chamber window. Jet inexplicably found himself by the lake, several hundred yards from the window, having succumbed to the physics of the dream world during his fall. He collected himself and turned in time to see the house crack and fall in a spectacular collapse. Staring at the rubble, Jet thought of his latest ruined opportunity...

"Dammit, Spike."

A peculiar sensation came over him at that moment, a strange feeling of dizziness...his entire body stiffened and would not be moved, as though he was restrained somehow. The world tipped and spun, blurring into an indistinct mass of blackness...soon he was aware of a powerful thirst. Shortly he realized that his eyes were closed, and he opened them, dissipating the blackness to a degree. He found that in his new environment he was indeed restrained, and quite thoroughly: a prisoner in a dungeon, he was strapped to a low table, the straps affording him only movement of his head and his left arm. Jet cast his eyes about, finally settling his gaze on the ceiling--where he beheld a pendulum suspended high above him, swinging steadily back and forth in a wide arc. He now knew his fate, and knew it well: time would drag on and on, the pendulum descending at a maddeningly slow rate, the sharp blade delivering a horrific death at an excruciatingly leisurely pace.

"Dammit to hell, this one takes forever."

How long he watched that blade meander its way downward, he did not know; had he enough freedom of movement, he surely would have checked his pocket watch multiple times. His greatest fear now was that boredom would spell his end long before his intended demise could be carried out. However, he soon became aware of a battle raging within him: his conscious mind knew that death in this case would awaken him to reality, but his unconscious was beginning to react instinctively and strive for self-preservation. The internal cries for escape were becoming ever harder to ignore, to the point where, try as he might, Jet could not but begin to panic and search for a way to continue dreaming--to continue living. When the dungeon rats, lured by the scent of his meager provisions, swarmed over him and gnawed away at the straps that bound him in the deadly pendulum's path, he made no move to dispel them, but left them to their work--and soon he was free, just in time to feel the first shock of pain as the blade brushed his chest...but he was free. As the instrument of death continued its swing away, he quit his perch upon the table and escaped the path of the blade. In an instant, it was arrested in its flight and hoisted back to the dungeon ceiling, and the next attempt on his life was put into motion: the walls of his prison began to glow a fiery red, and within moments Jet realized that they were closing in upon him. His primary thought was escape now: no trace of desire to awaken remained. Thinking to seek solace from the relative coolness of the pit in the center of his dungeon, he hastened to its edge--but the intense light from the walls permeated its blackness, affording him every view of its depths. Including what awaited him at the bottom. 

No! This could not be! It was too horrible to contemplate--he would die at the hands of his captors if he must, but not as a result of what lay in the pit! He struggled to stay on the floor of the dungeon, even as the movement of the searing walls pushed him ever closer to the brink of doom. 

But now another light cut through the dungeon, and the noises of people storming throughout the prison--he barely had time to realize what was happening before he lost his footing and slipped over the edge--

--but was caught by two pairs of hands, one belonging to a raven-haired young woman, the other to a lanky man with a piercing gaze. He was saved! The inquisitors had fallen! In utter relief he swooned, and everything went white...

...then faded once more into color, soothing color, as he came to awareness in a country cottage that some part of his consciousness told as belonging to him. 

He had escaped death, and at least partly through his own doing. 

Jet smacked his forehead. "Why me?"

Though his latest surroundings were of the most pleasant sort, his mood had soured beyond recovery. How much longer must he stay in this accursed dream? What sin was he atoning for? And how hard could it possibly be, Spike and Faye, to kill someone correctly?! Long hours he spent stewing in his foul temperament, ignoring the comfortable cottage, lovely wife, and amiable cat this latest chapter of his dream had given him. Indeed, he avoided all these subconscious trappings, lashing out at them harshly if they intruded on his internal ravings. He attempted to find some solitude one day in the home's cellar, but the ever-present feline would have none of it, staying at his ankles during the trip down the staircase, much to the chagrin of its master.

"Fucking cat..."

Near the bottom of the stairs, he was beckoned by the voice of the wife--and in his distraction, was tripped up by the cat and very nearly tumbled the rest of the way to the cellar floor. He recovered himself in time to avoid serious injury, but was consumed by rage, and had no intent of the letting the animal share in his good fortune. He caught up an axe near the furnace...

...and in the next instant found himself several days in the future. The skip in time gave him no pause; indeed, such events are common in dreams. He knew what had transpired during the blur, and so felt no discomfort at its hasty passing. The setting was still the cellar, but Jet was now in the company of two police officers who were investigating the disappearance of the wife. Satisfied that there was nothing to be found in the home, they were ready to make their departure--but were arrested by an unholy wailing emanating from within the very walls. In moments the wall was torn down, revealing the corpse of the wife...and the cat, the accursed cat, howling its banshee song and spelling Jet's doom.

...His doom! Yes! A capital crime, resulting in capital punishment! The gallows awaited! Never was a parade to execution such a joyous time for the criminal. Jet made every effort to put on the appropriate performance of fear and repentance, but in reality his heart was singing. Any moment now, he would be back...

As they put the noose around his neck, he afforded himself one last look at the crowd... and spotted three familiar faces. One, a young woman with raven hair and a devilish smile. Another, a tall, lanky man with a steady gaze. The third, an energetic child with a crop of red hair. He froze momentarily; but it was too late. They could do nothing for him now. He cast a triumphant smirk on the crowd. "Don't even think about it."

Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he fancied the child replied. "Nevermore..."

A creak, a sickening plunge, a sharp choking sensation, and then... blackness...

*******

"Morning, Jet."

"Hrmph."

Faye blinked at the unusually grumpy reception. "Sleep well?"

"Not really." 

"Aww, what's the matter? Did you have a nightmare?" she teased, grabbing the box of cereal away from him and rummaging for a bowl. "Well, I'd say it was something you ate, but we all know that's not possible around here." He merely grunted in reply.

"Yo." Spike entered, fighting off a yawn. He snatched the cereal box away from Faye and proceeded to pour his own bowl. 

"Hey! Lunkhead, I had it first!"

"What's the big deal? It's not going to go stale in 30 seconds," he retorted, tossing the box back at her.

"You took all of it!"

"Oh, I did not."

"You did so! Look at this, there's nothing left but marshmallow dust!"

"Whatever. It still tastes ok."

"It's _dust_! I'm not eating this!"

Spike shrugged. "That's hardly my problem."

"Well, since you -ate- -it- -all-, I'd say it _is_ your problem!"

"Will you two knock it off!" Jet barked suddenly, effectively silencing the others...for a few moments, anyway.

"Geez, Jet, what's with you?" Spike asked.

An exhausting night spent wrestling with his subconscious... so many opportunities to get away from it, all ruined by these two... and now they had the nerve to bicker like a couple of five year olds, and then act insulted when he told them to be quiet?

"What's with me? What's _with_ me? ... Can't you two even kill someone correctly?!" Jet stormed out, determined to nurse his bad mood in a little privacy.

"...What the hell was that all about?" Spike stared after him, baffled.

Faye shook her head, equally baffled. "No idea... maybe it really was something he ate."

"Nevermore!"

Usually Ed's outbursts weren't enough to startle anyone, but Edgar Allen Poe isn't something you usually hear from a perpetually gleeful 13-year-old. Today, though, that's exactly what they got as Ed danced spastically through the room. "Nevermore! Neeeeeeeevermore! Forever and ever and nevermooooooore!" 

Spike watched her for a few moments in silence... then stood up and headed out of the room.

"Hey, where are you going?" Faye asked.

"Back to bed. Any day that starts like this just isn't worth it."

The End

__

Who needs sleep, well you're never gonna get it...


End file.
